


The Napoleon of IT

by fatal_drum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Jim from IT, Molly Hooper is adorable, Sebastian is a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 18:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: What if Jim from IT had needed a flatmate instead of Sherlock?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I found this while clearing out my WiP folder. I lost steam before it got anywhere, but it's kind of cute as a standalone. If this idea catches anyone's fancy, feel free to run with it.

It all started with an offhand comment.

“I don’t see how you can afford this place, working for Bart's,” Molly said, hands cupped around a mug of hot chocolate while an improbably large orange tabby dozed on her lap. She took a sip, looking impossibly young as she did so. 

Jim raised his own mug to his lips, considering. He’d never intended to keep up the “Jim from IT” ruse for so long, but it was enjoyable in its own way. He had considered everything from his persona’s tastes in music to the names of his childhood pets, but not his finances.

“My flatmate moved out before I could find anyone to replace him,” he sighed. “Everyone who asks me seems to be unemployed or a criminal.”

“I’ve given up on flatmates besides Toby,” she giggled. “You should ask Mike. He knows just about everyone. I’m sure he could find you someone nice.”

“You think so?” He rolled the idea over in his head, leaning over to scratch Sebastian's white chin. It would be a challenge, maintaining his mask at home as well as the hospital. He would have to be perfect.

It would be a challenge.

He grinned. “I’ll ask him, then. In the meantime, let’s find out what happens to Quinn Fabrey.”

“I told you you’d love this show,” she said, reaching for the remote. The bright opening credits of Glee flashed across the screen.

 

* * *

 

John inhaled sharply as the door closed behind them, blinking against the unexpected darkness. In front of him stood a wall of machines whose function he could only guess at, mazed with wires and small blinking lights. The walls were lined with similar machines, except one which was given over to a series of posters – he could just make out the silhouette of a dalek.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already broken it again,” a voice said from seemingly nowhere. Soft, John noted. Male, with a slight Irish lilt.

“Not just yet.” Mike strode through the gap between the machines and the Doctor Who poster, revealing a small, tidy desk lit by a three separate screens. There were at least a dozen tabs open between multiple programs, and he was flipping back and forth at lighting speed, dashing out lines of code as he half-turned toward Mike.

“Can I borrow your mobile?” the man asked absently, fingers still flying through commands.

“You’ve a phone right there,” Mike said, pointing to an honest-to-god rotary phone on the corner of the desk. John wondered if he had to order it special

“It’d be better to text, but m’ battery’s gone out.”

John found himself reaching into his pocket before he could stop himself, presenting his hand palm-up with Harry’s phone.

“Thanks,” the man murmured, his fingers barely brushing John’s palm as he took the phone. The small screen lit his face, which was surprisingly fine featured, with eyes so dark they might have been black. He operated the phone more fluidly than John could after three weeks of trying to sort the bloody thing out.

“I wanted to introduce you to my mate, John Watson,” Stamford said. “John, meet Jim.”

Jim finished his text with a rapid flutter of key strokes, finally looking up at John. For a moment, his face was unnervingly blank. Then he flicked his gaze from John’s shoulder to his thigh, then from head to foot. His stare was almost palpable in its intensity, seeming to drink in every detail of John’s appearance. It was the first time in recent memory he could recall someone really  _seeing_ him. 

Finally he tilted his head and said, “Afghanistan, was it?”

“Mike’s told you about me,” John said, glancing to the side as Mike shook his head silently.

Jim man smiled, an expression that would have seemed friendly but for the impression of too many white teeth.

“You should know I keep odd hours,” he said. “Never know when there’s going to be some late-night emergency with the servers. I play the piano often, when I’m thinking. Would that bother you?”

“I suppose not, but how - ?”

“Good. I’m not much of a housekeeper, either, but I tend to keep my mess to myself.”

John blinked, waiting for the man’s statements to start making sense.

“We might as well learn the worst of each other first, if we’re to share a flat.” he explained, his gaze combing John over once more.

“Who said anything about a flat?”

“I did. Just this morning, fixing Mike’s tablet. Told him how difficult it was to find a flatmate who’s not some sort of criminal. But you seem downright… respectable.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he spoke. “I’ve got my eye on a lovely little place in Regent’s Park. Eight o'clock, then?”

“That’s it? We’ve only just met, and we’re going to look at a flat? I could be anyone.”

“I’m an excellent judge of character. Besides, it’s a flat share, not a marriage.”

A chime rang , and Jim turned to read something on his computer that made him pout.

“I’ve got to run. I’ll text you the address later. My number’s in here.” he said, handing back Harry’s mobile.

“Another broken tablet?” Stamford asked.

“No. Pathologist can’t work the camera on his microscope. Dire emergency, that.” He rolled his eyes, rising from the chair with a stretch and an audible pop. His t-shirt rode up to reveal the hint of a designer logo on his alarmingly bright pants.

He fixed John with another smile on his way out the door.

“Ciao. John Watson.”

John watched him leave, somehow utterly certain he would go with him, and unable to say why.

 


End file.
